


The Wrath of a Patient Adversary

by BloodAndRoses (BloodandRoses)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Body Modification
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:23:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodandRoses/pseuds/BloodAndRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is warring with himself, the desire to consume Will's flesh just as strong as his fascination with Will's mind. This is his compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Jack Crawford stirs restlessly, nudged awake by the gentle chiming of his cell phone. He reaches for it, grumbling at himself for having fallen asleep in the bedside chair. Jack had intended to watch his Bella rest before joining her, but dozed off unexpectedly.

 

He notes the time – just after 7 a.m. (and on a Sunday morning, too!) - and wishes desperately for a shower and a cup of coffee. Opening the text that woke him, Jack gently rolls the residual stiffness from his neck.

 

_Jack, something's wrong. Will and_

_I were supposed to have an early_

_dinner Friday night, but he never_

_showed. I'm at his house – the dogs_

_are outside and the door is open. He's_

_not here, and he's not answering his_

_phone._

_-Alana_

 

* * *

 

Alana is pacing on Will's porch when Jack pulls up. He parks in the vacant spot next to her car and notices that Will's vehicle is nowhere in sight. The bright, cheery red of Alana's coat contrasts sharply with the worry on her face, and her normally immaculate hair is rumpled from nervous fingers. Will's dogs are milling around the yard, and they swarm Jack as he exits his car. He is careful to watch his step as he makes his way to the porch, not wanting to trod on their paws - nor end up with shit clinging to his shoes.

 

“Alana,” he greets her, neutrally.

 

“Jack.”

 

He watches her for a moment, taking in the tightness around her eyes and the fretful way she keeps lacing and unlacing her fingers.

 

“Have you gone in yet?” Jack asks.

 

Alana sears him with a look. “I know better than that. If something has happened, I didn't want to contaminate any potential evidence. I've been waiting for you.”

 

Jack nods once, turning his eyes to Will's front door. The screen door is firmly closed, while the inner door swings wide. “Was this how you found it, exactly?” he asks.

 

“I closed the storm door,” Alana admits, “I was trying to keep the dogs out, just in case. When I got here it was propped open, but I didn't touch the main door.”

 

Jack nods to her, approving. “Probably a good idea,” he says. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, drapes it over his hand and uses it to gingerly open the door. “We'll take a look.”

 

Alana steps inside as Jack holds the screen door open for her, and absently turns on the lights. He steps through after her, letting the door fall shut behind him with a rusty squeak. The front room shows nothing out of the ordinary other than the detritus that comes with seven dogs. There are dog beds and toys spread across the floor, and Jack notes tufts of fur in the corners, as though Will has not swept recently. The bed tucked under the large window has been hastily made, and a faint odor of stale sweat can be detected under the scents of dog and wood smoke. Though nothing appears out of place, unease tickles at the back of Jack's mind. Will has been known to sleep-walk, and while he's taken precautions, the possibility exists that he's wandered during the night and been injured.

 

Alana walks deeper into the house, toward the kitchen, while Jack examines Will's desk and work-table. Maybe a diary or planner will shed some light on where his wayward agent has disappeared to. Jack is flipping through Will's calendar, turning the pages with the tip of his pen, when Alana calls out.

 

“Jack! Come look at this!” He hears her puzzlement and concern, and quickly follows her voice back to the kitchen.

 

“What is it?” he asks, before stepping around the counter to see for himself.

 

“I don't know,” Alana replies, frowning.

 

A thick line of dog food stretches across the floor, as though someone has poured out an entire bag of kibble directly onto the linoleum. Jack can see small disturbances in the trail where the dogs have eaten dents in the otherwise tidy line.

 

“Wherever he is, Will obviously took the time to set out food before he left,” Jack says. “Maybe he took an impromptu fishing trip, didn't take the dogs with him?”

 

Alana shakes her head, arms crossing defensively over her chest. “I don't think so,” she murmurs. “Will doesn't feed the dogs store-bought food. He makes it because it's healthier and because Maggie has allergies. If he thought he'd be away for a while, he would have asked me to watch out for them or placed them in a kennel. Besides,” she adds, “that doesn't explain him missing dinner Friday.”

 

Lifting his shoulders in a near-shrug, Jack sighs. “Fair point. About the dogs, not necessarily dinner. You know how scattered Will can be, he may have just forgotten. Still,” he concedes, frowning, “you're right, something's off. Keep trying his cell; if he doesn't respond in two hours, I'll put a trace on it. In the meantime, why don't you check a few of Will's more usual haunts? Maybe he's just ignoring his phone and needed a day to himself. I'll call Doctor Lecter, see if he knows anything.”

 

Alana nods, the tension in her face easing a bit now that they have a plan. “Thank you, Jack,” she says, “I know it's too early to worry, but -”

 

“But it's Will,” Jack interrupts, “And you're concerned. Understandable. Should we do anything for the dogs?”

 

Twisting her lips, Alana thinks for a moment. “I'll herd them into the garage for now. If we haven't heard back by tonight, I'll pick them up and take them home with me.”

 

“Hopefully that won't be necessary, and Will's just at a bar or drowning some worms.” Despite his brisk words, Jack feels that frisson of unease creep back into his mind. Thinking it can't hurt, he sends a quick prayer into the ether as they walk to the door: _Please, God, let this be nothing but paranoia._

 

* * *

 

Calling Doctor Lecter proves fruitless as well. A curt recording informs Jack that the doctor is not available, and to leave a message with a phone number and a convenient time for a return call.

 

Turning his car toward Baltimore, Jack hangs up rather than waste his breath. He'd prefer to have this conversation in person, anyway.

 

Traffic is light, so it's just after 11:30 when Jack parks in front of Doctor Lecter's home. Feeling slightly guilty for disturbing the doctor on a weekend, he gathers his resolve and knocks firmly.

 

After several moments, the door swings quietly open.

 

“Agent Crawford,” Hannibal greets him, face showing the barest hint of surprise, “How good to see you again.” He's dressed as casually as Jack has ever seen him, in casual slacks and a comfortable, if expensive, heavy-knit sweater.

 

“Morning, Doctor,” Jack says, holding out a hand for Hannibal to shake. “I'm sorry if I'm interrupting, but I need to speak with you about Will Graham. It's important, or I wouldn't have intruded.”

 

Hannibal seems to search Jacks face for a moment. “I see,” he says, brow furrowed slightly. “It's fortunate that I have no plans this afternoon. Please come in.”

 

Jack thanks him as he's waved into Hannibal's foyer, then on to a sitting room. The doctor excuses himself momentarily to fetch Jack a cup of coffee. Rather than sit, the Special Agent rests a hand on the back of a chair, fingers absently stroking the rich fabric. Hannibal returns with a steaming mug. He hands it to Jack, then sits and crosses his legs, hands resting comfortably on his knee.

 

“I am not officially Will's psychiatrist, so our conversations are not protected by doctor-patient confidentiality,” Hannibal begins. “However, I consider Will my friend. As such, there is a limit to what I am willing to share.”

 

Nodding, Jack slides his hands into his trouser pockets. “I know,” he says, “And I'm not here to pry. I need to know if you've heard from Will in the last day or so.”

 

Hannibal lifts one elegant eyebrow. “I have not,” he confirms. “Why do you ask?”

 

“Will may be missing. He missed a dinner engagement night before last, and, as far as we know, has not been heard from since approximately 4 p.m. Friday. He's not at his home, and we haven't been able to reach him by phone or text.”

 

Frowning slightly, Hannibal considers this information. “Though it is unusual for Will to miss an appointment without at least calling to apologize, he does occasionally neglect to answer his phone. Or it could be that he's simply fishing or hiking in a remote area and has no service.”

 

“It's possible,” Jack concedes, “but there are other factors that are somewhat worrying. Alana stopped by Will's to check on him this morning; the house was open and the dogs were running loose in the yard. There was also a good amount of dog food left out on the floor. It looked almost as though he had left it for them so they wouldn't go hungry, like he had planned to be gone a few days and didn't want to bother anyone to take care of the dogs. But . . .” here Jack trails off.

 

“But Will would not be so careless with his companions,” Hannibal finishes for him. “He is very attached to his dogs, as they provide unrestrained affection without the difficulties of social interaction.”

 

“Exactly,” Jack huffs out. “Plus, Alana says Will makes all of his dogs' food, and this was store-bought. Still,” he continues, “there isn't really anything that points to foul play. It's just my gut saying something is wrong. I called Katz on the way over; she's checking hospitals and morgues just in case, and Zee's putting out an APB on Will's car. Alana is calling or visiting bars and shops Will frequents in Wolf Trap.” Jack pauses, turning something over in his mind. Guilt flickers over his face as he resumes speaking. “Is it possible that Will has just had enough, and has walked away from the Bureau and everything that reminds him of us?” His hands fist in his pockets for a moment, then deliberately relax before withdrawing to grip the chair's back once more.

 

“I shouldn't think so,” Hannibal replies. “Though I can say without breaking any confidences that Will is certainly disturbed by the things he's exposed to in his line of work, he is very invested in what he does. The ability to save lives by catching those who take them is one of the few things he considers worthwhile about himself. Besides,” Hannibal says, allowing a faint edge of worry to color his voice, “even if he had decided to leave the Bureau, he would not have abandoned his pets. Their companionship eases the burden of the atrocities he sees every day. They are his sanctuary.”

 

Agent Crawford runs a hand over his close-cropped hair. “I thought you'd say something like that,” he admits. “Would you mind calling me if you hear from Will?”

 

Hannibal rises, reaching out a hand for Jack to clasp. “Certainly, Jack. And please let me know if you find anything.”

 

* * *

 

 

After walking Jack to the door, Hannibal carries the Special Agent's still-full coffee cup to the kitchen and carefully pours it into the sink. He quickly washes the mug, then places it into the rack to dry. Only then does he allow himself to go to the wine cupboard, and down.

 

Stepping through the thick plastic curtains that section off the basement, Hannibal indulges in a small, arrogant smile. He feels a cool satisfaction that the FBI are just as oblivious as ever, that his skills in deception are such that he will stand in full view of their best and still they will not _see._

 

As Will Graham sleeps, Hannibal mechanically checks and adjusts his IV sedatives, then puts on a protective smock over his clothes. That done, he smooths a hand over Will's bared abdomen with something close to affection.

 

Very few people have managed to intrigue Hannibal. Still fewer have managed to keep his interest for as long as Will. Nothing delights Hannibal more than seeing the awe and fear on Will's face when he steps into the Ripper's mind. Or better, the excitement. The sick, guilty reverence that Will feels, that he detests, when he looks at the Ripper's work and sees under the horror to the artistry.

 

It is so nice to have ones' efforts appreciated.

 

As Hannibal's fascination with Will's psyche has grown, so too has his desire to taste. While his other hunts have been little more than entertainment, Hannibal is somewhat disquieted by this _need_ to feel Will's flesh between his teeth, have the flavor burst wild across his tongue. He doesn't wish to deprive himself of Will's mind, but neither will he deny his hunger.

 

He picks up the scalpel and makes the first cut.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

Jack grits his teeth in frustration, eyes dark and heavy with weariness. It has been two days since he received his early-morning text from Alana. Will is still missing, and they have _nothing._

 

The Bureau's security feeds show Will exiting the building at 4:09p.m., then heading south on foot. His car was found in a lot a few blocks away, his keys, wallet, and phone placed tidily in the glove box. When scoured for clues, the only fingerprints and hairs found in the car are Will's. No other sign of him has been found since.

 

“God damn it!” Jack growls, slapping his phone into its' cradle. Beverly and Price, waiting to report their progress, both jump in surprise. “You better have found something,” he barks, looming behind his desk.

 

Beverly shifts her weight to the side, her own eyes tired and worried. “We can't find what isn't there, Jack,” she says. “Traffic cams in the area don't show any signs of Will on foot. There were no security cams in the lot where his car was found, and the people we've canvassed haven't reported seeing anything. There is no blood and no signs of struggle at his house or in his vehicle, though a tech noted that his car's horn had been disconnected. So either Will is making an effort not to be found, or someone managed to overpower him quickly and silently and drive away without anyone noticing.”

 

Price clears his throat. “Personally, I think the evidence is leaning more towards a kidnapping. We're fairly sure that the dog food found at Will's house wasn't left by him. Alana took Maggie to the vet because she couldn't stop vomiting, and it turns out the food contains some ingredients that she's allergic to. The vet was adamant that Will knows about Maggie's allergy and was always very careful about what he fed her. If he'd asked someone to watch the dogs, they would have known that.”

 

“Something that still bothers me” Beverly tosses out, “is that if someone did take Will, why would they bother to feed his dogs and leave the doors open for them? Especially since it looks like he was taken from D.C. and not Wolf Trap.”

 

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Jack closes his eyes and sighs heavily.

 

“Assuming that Will was abducted, caring for his dogs might indicate a couple of things. One, that they needed or wanted Will's cooperation; 'Behave and I'll make sure they're fed. Act out and I'll hurt them.' Or it could mean that they were trying to curry favor; 'I know that you wouldn't want them to suffer, so I left them enough food and water for several days.' Either way, it means that the kidnappers knows Will well enough to use his dogs against him.”

 

“Or it could just mean that the kidnapper really likes dogs,” Price points out. Both Beverly and Jack glare at him. “Or not,” he mutters.

 

“Keep looking through the files of the guys he's put away,” Jack orders. “Focus on any that got released in the last year. Maybe someone is looking for revenge.”

 

“Will do, boss.” The agents turn to the door, ready to tackle their new assignment.

 

Alone, Jack sits heavily at his desk. Sliding open a small drawer to his right, he looks down into the smiling face of Mirium Lass. Jack studies her face, imagines he sees accusation in her eyes.

 

Then, gently, he shuts the drawer and gets back to work.

 

* * *

 

Will wakes slowly, drawn to consciousness by a harsh, static noise. Though groggy, he knows he's in deep trouble. Even if, at the moment, he can't remember why.

 

He fidgets, testing his range of motion, and finds straps pinning his arms at his sides and his feet slightly apart. More straps cross his hips, chest, chin, and forehead, holding him almost completely immobile. Though he feels soft cotton pants covering his legs, Will's chest seems to be bare, cool air wafting along his skin. A blindfold rests securely across his eyes, obscuring his vision.

 

When Will first pulls against his bonds to test them for weakness, he feels a deep, sharp ache flood through his belly. It's shocking in its intensity and he cries out. After a moment, he takes a few slow, steady breaths and deliberately relaxes his muscles before the pain eases to a manageable level.

 

The instinctive terror Will feels at being tied down and injured clears most of the cobwebs from his brain. He has a brief flash of getting into his car, then choking as an arm snakes around his throat from behind. Will recalls flailing, trying to get his gun out of it's holster and kicking himself for not taking it off before he got in the vehicle. Then there was a sharp pinch at his neck, and a few seconds later, darkness.

 

 _Well, shit,_ Will thinks with morbid amusement, _at least I won't have to look at any more crime scenes since I'm probably about to_ be _one._

 

Though he strains as much as he can, Will can only turn his head a half inch or so from side to side. He feels a soft pressure cupping his ears, and deduces that he's wearing headphones. It would explain why he can't hear anything except a static buzz and his own breathing, his own heartbeat thump, thump, thumping in his head.

 

Without warning, a warm hand touches Will's upper arm, startling him. Will's muscles spasm at the contact, trying to edge away even with nowhere to go.

 

Remembering his academy training, Will takes a deep breath and tries to speak calmly. “Hello? Who's there?”

 

If his captor replies, Will doesn't hear it. The fingers touching him skim over the lines of his shoulder, then slide down his left arm to fiddle with something at Will's side. There's a sharp tugging sensation to his forearm, and then a burning itch flushes briefly across Will's body. After a moment, his mind goes buoyant and the pain unravels, thoughts drifting away on what Will distantly recognizes as a morphine high.

 

Will knows he should be afraid, but the fear is too hard to hold onto. He floats in the dark, content.

 

* * *

 

The call comes in just as Jack is settling at his desk Thursday morning.

 

“Agent Crawford? This is Detective Paulson of the metro police. A man fitting Will Graham's description was just found in Montgomery Park, unconscious and unresponsive. He's been transferred to Sibley Memorial.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I want to say I am SO sorry for taking so long. Real life sort of threw me down a flight of stairs, and between the concussion and the knee surgery I've spent the last couple weeks too stoned to focus on my keyboard. But on the other hand, Vicodin! I honestly have no idea if this chapter even makes sense, but if it doesn't I'll fix it later. Probably.
> 
> Maybe not.

Jack stands with Alana and Hannibal, waiting to speak with Will's doctor. Both Hannibal and Alana have been calling at least twice a day for updates on the investigation, even though they know Jack would (and did) call them immediately if new information was uncovered.

 

Though Hannibal looks as contained as ever, Alana is visibly anxious. Jack suspects he just appears tired.

 

The doctor that approaches them radiates calm authority. “I am Doctor Elizabeth Matsudo. I understand the three of you are here to see my patient?”

 

They introduce themselves, each shaking hands with the doctor in turn. Slanted eyes linger on Jack's face.

 

“Mr. Graham has listed Alana Bloom as his emergency contact and medical proxy. Do I have your permission to discuss his medical condition with these gentlemen, or would you prefer we speak in private?”

 

Alana looks surprised for a moment, then waves a hand. “It's fine,” she says. “Jack will need to know anyway and Hannibal is a close friend of Will's.”

 

Dr. Matsudo nods in acceptance. “Mr. Graham is still unconscious. In a few moments we will be taking him to surgery to further asses and treat his injuries.”

 

Alana pales, eyes glittering, while Jack grimaces. Neither of them are sure they want to know how their friend has been hurt.

 

Seeming to understand that his companions are too distressed to ask, Hannibal gently prods for further information. “And the nature of those injuries?”

 

Pausing, Dr. Matsudo taps her fingers rapidly against her thigh. “Varied. It appears,” she says slowly, “that sometime in the last few days one kidney, the appendix, and a portion of the liver were removed, as was Mr. Graham's left eye.”

 

Jack looks as though he's going to be ill, and even Hannibal is noticeably shocked. Silent tears slip down Alana's face as she asks“But he's okay, isn't he? He's going to be all right?”

 

“We are keeping a very careful eye on him,” the doctor answers, impassive. “So far he is clear of infection and there is no visible internal bleeding. His vitals are stable and strong. We'll know more once we can assess the internal damage.”

 

“In addition to the organ removal,” Doctor Matsudo continues, “a segment of skin and muscle was removed from the right calf. Mr. Graham may walk again with physical therapy, but it will be a long time before he's back on his feet. We also found light bruising on his jaw and throat and some defensive injuries to his arms. There are ligature marks from what appear to be straps around Mr. Graham's wrists, ankles, and chest, similar to the restraints we use for violent patients here. The bruising is light, but he definitely struggled against the restraints.”

 

Dr. Matsudo turns to Jack, addressing him soberly. “The police detective that accompanied Mr. Graham to the hospital told me that he was a suspected victim of kidnapping. You'll be relieved to hear that there are no overt signs of sexual assault. I wish you luck in finding the person responsible.” With that she turns, walks down the hall and out of sight while Will's friends stand troubled in her wake.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Alana is contemplating yet another cup of vending-machine coffee when Dr. Matsudo returns. She reassures them that the surgery went well, that there were no complications, and allows a short visit.

 

Per Jack's orders, two police officers stand guard outside of Will's door. Jack nods to them as he passes them and into Will's room.

 

Inside, the room is quiet and dim, thick walls and curtains blocking out the bustle and noise of the busy hospital corridor just beyond the door. Hannibal and Alana arrange themselves at Will's sides, with Jack hovering at the foot of the bed.

 

For a moment the only sound is Will's slow, steady breathing. Dark curls are swept back from his pale face. One eye is covered in thick, white bandages, but the other can be seen shifting restlessly under a blue-veined lid. Unconscious, the three-day stubble on Will's cheeks highlights the delicacy of his features instead of shielding them as usual. Laying in this bed, face lax and peaceful, he looks almost painfully vulnerable.

 

Unable to help herself, Alana brushes her fingers over Will's cheek. “Who would do something like this?” she asks. “Given the organ removal and Will's involvement on the case, I'd suspect the Ripper, but he mutilates and stages his victims. Will was just left in a park.”

 

Jack rolls his shoulders, agitated. “Actually, the detective who was originally called to the park said that there was some staging, and the clothes Will was found in aren't what he was wearing Friday. The paramedics were more concerned with his medical needs than maintaining the crime scene, so it's a mess, but I sent Katz and Zee to process whatever is left. Price picked up Will's clothes and personal effects about an hour ago.”

 

“Hopefully they'll find something,” Alana says, reaching to lay a hand over Will's where it rests atop the blanket. Suddenly, she grasps Will's hand, tossing her hair over her shoulder for a closer look. “Jack, have you seen this?” she asks, lifting Will's right hand into view. Jack steps closer while Hannibal leans across the bed for a better view. A small, fresh tattoo can be seen between Will's thumb and forefinger.

 

“Is that a flower?” Jack asks.

 

“I think it's a gladiolus,” Alana replies, gently touching a finger to the mark. “I have some in my garden.”

 

Frowning, she gestures down at Will's left hand. “Hannibal, do you see anything on his other hand?”

 

Hannibal hums in acknowledgment, gently lifting Will's hand by the wrist. A tattoo adorns this hand, as well.

 

“A leaf?” Alana asks, bewildered. “What do they mean? He didn't have them before.”

 

Jack scowls. “They're probably meant as a message from the kidnapper, but the hell if I know what it means.”

 

“This is an oak leaf,” Hannibal says, running his thumb over the mark. “In many cultures the oak leaf is a symbol of strength.”

 

“Strength? Could the oak leaf mean that the kidnapper wants to rub our noses in how powerful he is?” Jack suggests. “He may want us to acknowledge the strength and skill it took to subdue a federal agent and keep him captive for several days.”

 

Alana, who had been tapping at her phone, looks up. “It says here that in the language of flowers, gladiolus typically symbolize the concept of honor. Why would he use that?” Her eyes flash. “Does he think he's _honoring_ Will by mutilating him like this?”

 

Hannibal draws in a breath, face pensive. “The person responsible might not think of his actions as mutilation, Alana. After all, the pieces that were removed are all organs a person can survive without. Will's kidnapper then bandaged him and left him somewhere public and well-traveled, so we can assume he wanted Will found alive.”

 

“Hannibal's right,” Jack says. “It would have been far simpler and safer for the perpetrator to kill Will than let him go.”

 

Hannibal nods. “That's true. From a logical standpoint, killing Will would have been the better option. But instead, the kidnapper treated his wounds and permanently etched symbols of strength and honor into Will's skin before setting him free. He may view the marks as a gift, an acknowledgment of a worthy opponent. These factors could indicate that whoever took our Will holds him in high regard.”

 

Alana looks back and forth between Jack and Hannibal. “You're probably right, Hannibal,” she says, “but it's not making me feel any better. What if this guy comes after Will again? What if his . . . admiration gets stronger and even more twisted? How are we going to protect Will then?”

 

Jack's face tightens with anger. “We'll protect him by doing our jobs. The best way to keep Will safe is to catch this bastard, so I'm going back to the Bureau and getting started on the evidence reports. You two keep me updated on Will's condition.” Jack says his goodbyes, then has a quick word with the sentries on the door before heading out.

 

He's got work to do.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief reference to masturbation in this chapter. I'm apologizing in advance because while I apparently can talk about sex and kink all day long, writing about it is weirdly embarrassing and I'm not good at it. Awkward. 
> 
> Also, this fic is not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

Gritting his teeth, Will cheerfully imagines strangling his therapist. As he listens to Dr. Joanna Cross patter on about absorbing and overcoming his trauma, he pictures wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing, watching her face swell and purple as she gags for air. He then imagines her head popping like an over-filled balloon, bursting with confetti and the sound of trumpets. 

 

That’s probably not what she meant when she suggested visualization exercises. 

 

Several minutes later, Will politely shakes hands with his FBI-appointed therapist, picks up his cane, and hobbles his way to the door. Unlike their first few sessions, Dr. Cross is now very aware that trying to assist the battered Special Agent will only result in a frigid thank-you. She stays in her seat, scribbling notes as Will exits the room. Once the door has clicked shut between them, both patient and therapist release a sigh, thankful that this particular chore is done for the week.

 

“Another week’s therapy done, then?”  Doctor Lecter asks, smiling warmly as he places his notebook in his breast pocket.  Will, leaning against the closed door, huffs a laugh.

 

“Yeah, Hannibal. Done.” He rocks forward, starting the slow, slightly unsteady trek to the parking lot where Hannibal’s car awaits. Learning to maneuver with one good leg - and skewed depth perception from his missing eye - has been the most trying part of Will’s recovery. Or was, until Jack informed him that he’d be receiving mandatory trauma counseling. 

 

Now Will’s not sure which he hates more; constantly stumbling into things and relying on his friends to drive him everywhere, or the incessant, somber ramblings of the poor woman assigned to “fix” him.

 

Actually, scratch that. Will would happily bump into walls and desks every day of the rest of his life if it meant not ever having to go back into that room again.

 

Today Hannibal has offered, as he does at least twice a week, to chauffeur Will to his various appointments and back home again. Casually matching Will’s stride, Hannibal ensures that he reaches the glass door to the parking area a step behind his companion. Deliberately, Will reaches for the handle and holds the door for Doctor Lecter, silently daring him to comment. 

 

Knowing how Will hates being pitied, Hannibal often finds himself pandering to the Special Agent’s independence. So instead of insisting that Will pass through first, Hannibal simply removes his car remote from his pocket, unlocking the doors and starting the Bentley’s engine with the press of a button. After both men settle into their seats, Will props his unadorned walnut cane between his knee and the center console as Hannibal smoothly accelerates out of the lot.

 

“From your expression, I gather your appointment with Dr. Cross was not particularly helpful,” Hannibal muses. 

 

Will snorts, fingers reaching up to press under his artificial eye. Though he’s had the prosthesis for six days, it’s still so strange to feel  _ movement _ under his left eyelid. It doesn’t hurt, precisely, but in the four months since his abduction Will had become used to the unmoving conformer the doctors placed to maintain the shape of his empty eye socket until he’d healed enough for the prosthetic. Though he’s grateful that he has any movement at all, it’s still a disturbing sensation.

 

“No, not really,” Will replies. His hands rest on his knees, and he glances at the now-healed tattoos before deliberately focussing on the car in front of them. “Cross keeps trying to ‘get me in touch with my trauma.’ Because apparently living it wasn’t enough, now I have to try to  _ understand _ it. But I already understand it. The Ripper got bored or hungry or both and picked me for his next meal. What I  _ don’t  _ understand is why I’m still breathing.”

 

Will pauses as though waiting for a Hannibal’s opinion, but all he gets is a noncommittal hum. “Jack has always said that I’m the Bureau’s best chance for catching the Ripper, so it makes sense he’d want to get rid of me. But it makes no sense to kidnap and butcher me, and then patch me up and send me home.” Narrowing his eyes, Will quirks his lips in a wry smile. “Maybe he just didn’t like the way I taste.”

 

Because the driver’s seat is on his blind side, Will doesn’t notice the slight flex of Hannibal’s fingers against the leather of the steering wheel, nor the way his eyes are suddenly hooded in remembered pleasure. Hannibal quickly regains his composure and reaches out, eyes never straying from the road as he gently rests a palm just above Will’s knee.

 

“Whatever his reasoning, dear Will, I am glad of it.”

 

* * *

 

Will watches Hannibal’s car back down his drive and can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed. In the weeks since Will awoke in the hospital, Hannibal has been both a source of support and discomfort. While he appreciates the Doctor’s  visits - and frequent “care packages” of ready-to-heat meals and interesting books to keep him entertained during his convalescence - Will can’t help but notice that Hannibal’s attentions aren’t merely that of a concerned friend. It’s nothing overt or inappropriate, but since Will’s return Hannibal’s demeanor has been noticeably . . . warmer. Casual touches and subtle compliments have slipped seamlessly into their conversations.

 

So far Will has kept his observations to himself, deliberately avoiding thinking about or dealing with the situation. He's excused Hannibal’s increased affection as a nurturing reflex due to Will’s injuries, not wanting to acknowledge the way his stomach quivers with anxiety, excitement, and dread at every brush of Hannibal’s fingers. 

 

His stomach has been quivering quite a lot, lately.

 

Will closes his door as Hannibal turns onto the main road, then wades through his dogs and settles at his kitchen table to brood.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal keeps his eyes trained on his rearview mirror, watching the little house shrink into the distance, and feels a brief pang of uncertainty. Over the last several weeks Hannibal has been acting more and more unlike himself. He’d started this game out of amusement and conceited pride, but now the sticky strings of admiration and want are tangling around him. 

 

Hannibal can feel those strings constricting despite himself, wriggling into his flesh and bone, the desire to to possess pulsing stronger with every beat of his heart. He’d thought at first that his plan would quell this need, that his curiosity would be indulged and he’d move on to other pursuits. Instead, Hannibal increasingly finds his mind occupied with memories of Will. 

 

Though he turns his eyes to the road in front of him, Hannibal isn’t seeing the faded blacktop or the open fields spread out in front of him. Hannibal is seeing the delicate curve of Will’s ribs, feeling the surprising softness of his inner arm. Hearing the soft catch of breath at the touch of Hannibal’s hands one of the few times Will had come blurrily awake.

 

During the nephrectomy, Hannibal had been slightly unnerved to feel himself harden as he slid his fingers in the incision to lift Will’s kidney free. The erection had faded within minutes, only to return that night at the first bite of pan-fried kidney on toast. Hannibal had tried to will the tumescence away so he could focus on his meal, but merely found his arousal increasing with every fresh taste. 

 

After being forced to wash up with an unseemly bulge in his trousers, Hannibal had conceded defeat and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He’d laid himself out atop the covers, slowly stroking his cock as he breathed Will’s scent from the pillowslip he’d brought up from the basement.

 

Hannibal had orgasmed to the thought of painting Will’s tongue with his release.

 

Clearing the image from his head, Hannibal re-focuses on the road and considers his next move.


End file.
